


Some Assembly Required

by peachpety



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Denial, Established Relationship, Fluff, Furniture Shopping, HP Fluff Fest 2020, IKEA Furniture, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Harry Potter, Ron Weasely/Original Female Character, Smut, Supportive Ron Weasley, love realizations, minor argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26037958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpety/pseuds/peachpety
Summary: A relationship must occasionally endure a test of strength, be it confronting an ex, or meeting the in-laws. Sometimes, however, an inanimate object can make or break a couple. Harry and Draco’s relationship is put to the test when they attempt to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 57
Kudos: 252
Collections: HP Fluff Fest 2020





	Some Assembly Required

**Author's Note:**

> A huge hug to the anonymous lovely who prompted this gem. I cannot thank you enough! I had a little IKEA snippet written for ages waiting to be embellished and this prompt fit perfectly. A big thanks, too, to the mods for hosting this fantastic fest. I was beyond thrilled for the chance to craft fluff, my absolute favorite trope to create for Drarry. And lastly, all the chocolate, Starbucks, and love in the universe to my beta, toluene, for tolerating me and suffering my constant scrutiny and questioning of the minutiae. Your patience knows no bounds. Enjoy! xo peach

Draco comes out of the bathroom suddenly, startling Harry out of a doze. Harry blinks at the ceiling from where he’s sprawled on the bed, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. The book he is reading falls from his lap to the floor.

“Pansy gave Neville a boyfriend drawer,” Draco announces. His hair is pulled back in a headband, and he delicately massages face cream into his skin.

Harry yawns and rubs his eyes under his glasses. “A what?”

“A drawer for him to use for his overnight things, though I can’t fathom how one drawer could possibly be enough.” He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Harry flops his arms onto the bed. “Er, yeah, sure, I could make room in the chest of drawers,” he offers.

Draco eyes the chest with disgust and turns back into the bathroom.

Harry picks up the book from the floor. He thumbs through the pages to find his lost place, and Draco steps out of the bathroom again. He’s rubbing lotion onto his elbows. It’s oddly erotic. Harry adjusts himself in his pants.

“It’s not even solid wood. It’s veneer,” Draco states. “And that one drawer sticks.” He disappears again.

Harry sets the book aside. The lingering scent of earl grey and cucumber makes his heartbeat quicken. He’s taken to swiping a lotion smear on his inner wrist to sample on the days Draco is away at work or at his own flat. Harry settles back against the multitude of pillows Draco insists are essential for dressing a bed, laces his fingers behind his head, and waits.

A few minutes later, Draco emerges and extinguishes the bathroom light with a flick of his wand. He’s wearing Harry’s best dress shirt, buttoned only at his navel. It is just long enough that his pants barely peek out from the bottom hem. Harry’s heart revs up a notch.

Draco climbs into bed. “I shudder to think of the ghastly establishment that sold you that abomination.” He fluffs the pillows. “It’s an insult to respectable chests of drawers the world over.”

Harry rolls over to press up against the length of Draco’s body. “Actually,” he murmurs seductively, “Ron and I found it on the side of the road.” He caresses his fingertips down a pale sliver of skin exposed by the gap in the shirt. “Hermione was thrilled we were keeping it from the landfill.”

Draco yelps and flings himself off the bed, hand clutching the shirt tight to his chest. “You mean to say,” he says, voice strangled, “that piece of rubbish is _actual_ rubbish?”

“Erm.” Harry’s arm hovers frozen over the empty bed. “Well, not anymore.”

Draco blanches and starts aggressively collecting pillows, shoving them under his arms.

“What are you— ” Draco snatches the pillow Harry’s leaning against, and Harry’s head thuds against the headboard. He laughs. “Draco, where are you going?”

“I cannot sleep in the same room with that thing.” 

Harry decides it’s best to not mention the fact that Draco has slept in the room housing this piece of furniture many times over the last 6 months. He also decides to not bring up the other fact, that Draco’s naked arse had been leant against that “rubbish” while Harry unbelievably, and with enthusiastic glee, sucked him off after sneaking away during Harry’s birthday dinner party — the blow job that started it all.

The best birthday ever, in Harry’s opinion.

Draco lifts his chin. “If you need me, I’ll be on the couch.” He fumbles for his wand and Levitates the blanket and the few pillows he couldn't stuff into his arms. He looks like a big marshmallow with blonde hair and cute legs, the fluffy planet around which pillow satellites orbit like soft moons.

Harry picks up his phone and takes a few hasty photos and a quick video. He then trails his finger through the air, sending a current of magic to make the pillows twirl and float back to the bed. Draco pulls one back to him with a huff and hugs it to his chest beneath his crossed arms, scowling. Harry twists his hand in a complicated flourish and the drawers in the chest magically open. Clothes Levitate and dance out of the room. A snap of his fingers and the chest vanishes. He smiles at Draco with satisfaction.

Draco drops the pillow and stares. He’s blushing so hard even his chest and abdomen are pink. “Did you just… wandless and _nonverbal?”_

“Sexy, right?” Harry pats the bed. “Come back.”

Draco’s lips twitch, but he sets his hands on his hips. “The question still stands, Potter. Where will I put my things?”

“It’s a good question, Malfoy.” Harry swipes his finger through the air. Draco’s shirt unbuttons fully. “All I can tell you for certain is where your pants will be in a few minutes.”

* * *

Beneath Harry, Draco moans and it sends Harry’s blood charging through his veins. Harry pins him further into the mattress. He can’t get close enough.

He’s perpetually in awe that he can have this, that he’s allowed to witness Draco this way, unbuttoned, uninhibited, wanting everything Harry offers him. Harry’s heart expands and he can hardly breathe. He wants to give Draco anything and everything, even…

“The drawer, Potter— ” Draco inhales sharply as Harry nuzzles away the open shirt to caress a hard nipple with his lips. Draco moans again.

Harry smiles against his skin. “What about the drawer, Malfoy?” He sucks the rosy nub into his mouth. Draco arches into him, and Harry moves swiftly up to scale the peak of Draco’s Adam’s apple with his tongue.

A slight shift of his hips and Harry’s cock slides against Draco’s, the tip catching the ridge of Draco’s cockhead. Harry glances down and watches a bead of his pre-come dribble out and slide down to drip onto Draco’s already slick tip. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Harry grits out through his teeth. “That looks— ”

Draco undulates his hips and smears pre-come between them. Harry’s eyelids flutter. “Ah, _fuck_ , Draco, you feel _good.”_

A pleased chuckle rumbles deep in Draco's chest. He cards his fingers into Harry’s hair, guiding Harry’s ear to his lips. “Good enough for two drawers, at least.” 

Harry lifts up with a powerful heave and flips their positions. “I’ve ideas about that,” he says, settling back into the pillows and snuggling Draco on top of him. He palms Draco’s arse and squeezes.

Draco smirks, his grin never failing to make Harry’s heart palpitate in his chest. “Harry Potter has ideas,” he says silkily. He grinds their erections together in a slow, slippery rhythm. “I’m riveted."

Harry dips his fingers into the valley between Draco’s arse cheeks, catching delicate puckered skin with a fingertip and _pressing_. Draco stills and his smirk falters, lips parting. 

Harry hums. “ _Now_ you’re riveted,” he purrs. “You’ll have your drawer, Malfoy.” He lifts the corner of his mouth into a half-grin. “But it’ll be in a chest of drawers from a muggle store of my choosing.” Draco pulls a face and Harry strokes his finger, stalling Draco’s retort. “ _And,”_ Harry says, tracing soft circles. “I get to pick it out. No question.”

“I might have some… _questions."_ Draco gasps as Harry silently administers a cleaning spell on them both. “Fuck, your _magic._ The way it feels inside me.” 

Draco’s words, spilled in a rush, spur a charged current to gallop through Harry’s mounting desire. He guides Draco’s arse down as he rolls his hips up, seeking friction.

“There’s more,” Harry says, breathless.

Draco chuckles. “You’re quite demanding tonight, Potter.” He shifts his arse back, pausing just shy of Harry’s fingertip breaching him. He gazes coyly at Harry through dark lashes. “I like it,” he says softly.

The hot current in Harry’s veins sparks, and he closes his eyes against the burn, silently spelling his finger slick. “The piece of furniture I want, we build ourselves,” he says, slipping his fingertip inside.

“ _Yes_ , Harry, fuck.” 

Draco arches his neck, and Harry hugs Draco closer. He strokes his finger, soft and gentle, the tiniest of tender movements generating mammoth shockwaves through Draco’s body. Harry commits to memory Draco’s face slack with bliss, eyes blown wide, and he’s in awe all over again by the beauty of Draco Malfoy transfixed. 

A kernel of warmth plants low in Harry’s belly and his heart swells with pride, with joy and desire, and something new, a novel emotion akin to affection but bolder, wider, and inexplicably scarier.

Draco clutches Harry’s hair tightly, the sting drawing Harry’s attention back to his boyfriend rocking on top of him. Draco rhythmically moves up to slide their erections together, and back onto Harry’s fingertip, over and over, driving the pace. Harry’s lips are captured in a kiss on an upstroke and Harry melts into the bed beneath Draco’s crushing grind. Heat blazes through him now, flooding every viable cell, tightening his groin, extinguishing all thought. His cock stiffens more. 

“ _Draco_. _Fuck.”_ Harry turns his face into Draco’s neck, his breath humid against hot skin. “I’m gonna— ” With a cry wrenched from his gut, Harry comes, his cock jerking hot against Draco’s. His mind flares white, strobing concurrent with his release.

Draco's climax crests soon after, hard and fast. Harry latches his mouth on Draco’s neck and sucks deeply, Draco’s groans vibrating against his lips. Each throb of Draco’s orgasm matches the clench of him around Harry’s fingertip and the whine of his voice over the back of his throat. His come mixes with Harry’s still pulsing from his own cock. 

“Fuck.” Draco collapses on top of Harry, half rolling to his side, gulping air. “That was… at least… a three-drawer orgasm.”

Harry hugs Draco close and laughs his agreement.

* * *

Draco eyes the escalator at IKEA with trepidation.

“The staircases at Hogwarts moved,” Harry notes dryly. He steps down as the stairs move up to stay near Draco stuck at the bottom.

“Yes, but the steps themselves bloody well didn’t! How do I… ?”

“Just let another go by. Wait!” Harry takes his phone out of his pocket and sets it to record. “Ok, now. Step on!”

“It’s fucking moving, Harry, and stop filming me!” Draco refocuses his attention. “Ok, next one,” he says, steeling himself. He stretches out his arms and rows them in time with the rolling stairs, lips moving as he counts off. Harry knows already that he’s going to watch this video over and over later, possibly forever. 

Harry looks up from the screen. Draco’s stubborn determination to conquer this “muggle moving death trap” is evident in his furrowed brow and sharply focused eyes. It’s a look he gets when he listens to Hermione harp about Elf rights, when he teaches Teddy how to fly, when he brews a complex potion.

When he takes Harry apart with deft fingers.

That same lofty feeling from last night wells up in Harry’s gut, a fount of emotion so pure and ethereal his skin can barely contain the fierce ache. His breath stalls and he stops climbing in place. The escalator conveys him up as realization comes crashing down.

He’s in love with Draco Malfoy.

“ _Harry!”_ Draco calls sharply.

“Shit!” Harry jolts into action. He pockets his phone and runs back down the stairs.

Draco glares. “You made me lose my rhythm. And what’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a mountain troll.”

“I’m… it’s whatever. Draco, there’s a queue. Grab the rail and hop on.”

“The rail is moving, too, you berk! Oh, bugger it.” He sticks out his foot and missteps, flailing forward. 

Harry grabs the front of Draco’s shirt, pulls him flush against him, and slots their lips together. The kiss remains chaste and sweet as they ascend in each other’s arms, Harry’s heart soaring as if levitated. At the top, they glide off onto the landing.

Draco touches his fingers to his lips when they separate, eyes narrowing. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Harry says. His head spins, and he blindly grabs papers from a nearby kiosk. “Look, there’s a catalogue and a-a-a map or whatever of the showroom.”

Draco ponders Harry skeptically and then plucks the papers from Harry’s hands. “You’ll delete that video,” he states, thumbing through the catalogue.

Harry manages a tenuous smile. “I already posted it.” He presses his fist to his chest. His heart feels as if it’s not of his body, a foreign object.

Draco huffs, leafing savagely through pages. He pauses and lifts his brow curiously. “There’s a restaurant in this furniture store? Inconceivable.” He shakes his head. “And they serve Swedish meatballs. I haven’t had saucy Swedish meatballs since summer hols third year.”

“You sampled my saucy meatballs last night,” Harry says, breathing easier. The comfort of cheeky banter helps him regain his footing.

“Ah, but they aren’t Swedish now, are they?” Draco grins wickedly, and Harry’s heart clunks in his chest.

He’s off kilter all over again. 

Fuck, maybe he really is in love.

* * *

Draco is appalled by the size of the showroom — _Luckily, I have a Triwizard Champion to guide me through this ridiculous labyrinth —_ and the volume of furniture — _Increase quantity and the quality suffers. You get what you pay for, Potter._ He is, however, fascinated by the complimentary paper tape measures. He takes it upon himself to measure every conceivable surface and remark to the sales associates when the tags display the incorrect measurements.

After an hour, Harry feels somewhat normal again. His heart barely wobbles when he thinks about his escalator epiphany, so he decides to ignore it altogether. Best not look directly at it, like the sun. Besides, his lightheadedness could be attributed to his being peckish, as it had been easily quelled by a Swedish lunch. Nothing to see here, folks, no preposterous love realizations. He chuckles at the ridiculousness.

Harry sits on a couch. Draco measures the arms and the cushions.

A sales associate approaches, all fake smiles and overt perkiness. He also totally checks out Draco’s arse. Harry hates him immediately. 

“Hi, I’m Neil,” the salesperson says. “Do you need any help deciding on a couch?”

“The measurements on this sofa are incorrectly labeled, Neil,” Draco announces. “And no, we are not interested in this couch.”

“Maybe another style might fit your needs— ”

Draco draws himself up to full height. It allows him to properly look down his nose, and Harry doesn’t feel sorry for Neil one bit.

“Everything about this sofa,” Draco says with extreme condescension, “from the inferior craftsmanship, to the synthetic fill, to the cheap fabric prevents me from even perching my perky arse on it, let alone purchasing it.”

Draco glances pointedly at Harry seated comfortably on the cushions, and Neil sneaks another peek at Draco’s perky arse. Harry frowns. His magical hackles raise, pricking the skin on his nape.

Neil lowers his voice. “Between you and me, the construction is suspect. The frame doesn’t even have double-doweled corners.”

“Indeed,” Draco says. He scrutinizes Neil with new interest. “And would it kill them to apply bullion fringing to the skirting?”

“Or tassels?” Neil simpers. He places a hand to Draco’s forearm, and the bookcase behind the sofa collapses with a loud bang. Both Draco and Neil jump, startled.

“Oh look, that fell apart,” Harry observes flatly, magic rumbling deep in his throat. He stands and takes Draco by the arm, navigating him away from an apologetic Neil and past additional sales associates rushing to the scene.

“Proves my point about shoddy construction,” Draco says under his breath, trotting to keep up as Harry pulls him along. 

He drags Draco through the kitchen displays, cutting through the office set-ups and bypassing dining tables. Draco grouses the entire time about _going off map_ and _clearly marked arrows on the floor_. Harry finally stops in the closets. His muscles still growl with residual magic, and he paces the small confined space.

Draco silently studies Harry as he very nearly climbs the walls. The little furrow between Draco’s brows smooths, and he grins slow and steady. He reaches out and runs his finger seductively over the closet paneling, hooking a drawer and pulling it open. “This is storage for neckties,” he says. 

Harry pauses. His magic settles to a purr.

Draco glides open another drawer. “The ball-bearing side mount glides provide a smooth, silent action.” He steps close to Harry. “It also has dividers for pants,” he adds tenderly. “I like it when you’re jealous.”

Harry huffs out a breath. “I wasn’t— ” 

Draco shuts him up with his mouth. Harry forgets all about impertinent sales associates and side mount glides.

* * *

It turns out a pleased and content Draco is amenable to all kinds of things.

He only mildly complains about Harry’s choice of chest of drawers. 

He doesn’t balk at the store’s self-service feature, although he does shake his head at the enormity of the warehouse and the state of muggles’ minds. 

He laughs for a full minute when Harry explains that they must manually lift the furniture boxes off the shelves.

They leave with Harry’s chest of drawers; a clear acrylic Louis ghost chair that Draco insists looks designer; a divided laundry hamper that had sent Draco into such raptures Harry had snogged him senseless in the shower display; a stuffed, plush badger for Teddy because _that boy is a Hufflepuff through and through, Potter, mark my words_ …

And Swedish meatballs.

* * *

Draco sorts and neatly lays out all the furniture pieces and parts in the bedroom. He checks and double checks the inventory, making cute little satisfied noises as he ticks items off the list. The singular metal assembly tool receives a thorough scrutiny — _What the fuck is this? We build this entire thing with this little tool? —_ and finally, he reads through the instructions. Twice.

Harry rests back on his hands, legs outstretched, ankles crossed. He watches the entire tightly controlled process. It’s an exercise that would have sent his sixteen-year-old self into an irritated, apoplectic fit. Ron remains in veiled disbelief at their pairing, at how Harry can find a prat, so uptight and regimented, remotely appealing, and it’s Malfoy besides. 

“There are only pictures, Harry,” Draco snorts, perusing the instruction booklet. “And how barbaric, the pictures don’t even move.” He flips the page, eyebrows raised as he glances at the images.

What Harry can’t explain to Ron is that it’s in these moments — Draco being almost a caricature of himself — that he finds Draco the most attractive.

“I know I paint a pretty picture building this ridiculous piece of pressed-wood furniture,” Draco’s eyebrows raise further, “but are you planning on helping me or are you going to gaze at me adoringly all day?”

Harry starts and looks away, shaking off the now familiar buzz shunting down his spine. He grabs wooden pieces from a random pile and begins slotting them together. 

Draco takes a deep breath. “Ok. Step one— ” He pauses and stares at Harry. “What are you doing?”

“These pieces go together.”

Draco grabs the wood out of Harry’s hands. “There’s a step-by-step process clearly outlined in the instructions.”

“I like figuring it out.”

Draco stares. “We are on step one, and you are on step fourteen. It’s like brewing a potion, Potter. If we skip a step it could blow up in our faces.” He places the wood neatly back into the piles. “It’s no wonder you failed Potions.”

“I got an Exceeds Expectations,” Harry mutters, digging lines into the carpet with the metal tool. He sighs. “Fine. What’s step one?”

* * *

Thirteen steps later, Harry is bent over the instructions. Draco, tongue poking out of his lips, wrenches together two wooden pieces.

“The first image in these barmy instructions,” Harry grouses, “should be of a stick figure opening a fucking bottle of wine and getting pissed before assembly.”

Draco points his wand at the paper and magically draws a stick figure, a bottle, and a wine glass. A wand tap animates it. The figure opens the bottle, pours wine, and drinks in a repetitive loop. Draco resumes drawer assembly.

Harry grins. “This reminds me of the love notes you used to send me at Hogwarts.”

“Those were certainly not love notes.” Draco grimaces and manually forces a piece of hardware onto the drawer. “Those were hate notes.”

Harry nods. “Ah, yes, because enemies do that, send delicate little fluttering crane notes with cute little animated drawings on them to their nemesis.” He hands Draco another screw. “I think you crushed on me.”

Draco blows hair out of his eyes. “I most certainly did not!”

“You did!” Harry points to the half-formed drawer. “You’ve skipped a step.” 

Draco takes the instructions from Harry and frowns. 

“Can we just use magic?” Harry flops onto his back. “I’m bored.” He picks up his phone, takes a selfie and sends it to Pansy. He snaps a picture of Draco and sends that, too.

“Oh no,” Draco protests, scrutinizing his handiwork and consulting the instructions again. “You wanted something you could ‘build with your hands’,” he mocks. “We are building this the muggle way, and I did not do this incorrectly.”

“You’ve used the wrong screw.” Harry raises his arm up, a screw pinched between his fingers. “This is the one you need.”

“I am using the screw you handed me.”

“That screw is for the next step.”

Draco drops his shoulders in exasperation. “Then why did you hand it to me, Potter? I have not proceeded to the next step!”

“You already have the screws you need, Malfoy. I was anticipating the next step.” Harry sits up and checks the time on his phone. “You do realize we have drinks with Ron and Lottie at 5. I’m going to just…” He waves his fingers in the air and the drawer glides attach themselves to the wood. 

Draco takes his wand and removes the glides. A jaw muscle clenches under a rosy blush blooming near his ear. “This step isn’t until _after_ I form the drawer.”

“What difference does it make?” Harry asks. A snap of his fingers attaches every free glide to wooden pieces.

A garbled noise escapes Draco’s throat. Harry takes in Draco’s wide eyes and the constrained pinch of his mouth, and suddenly he’s sixteen again, the splotchy blush on Draco’s cheeks sparking his irritation like the inside of a matador cape.

“I follow the instructions, Potter,” Draco says stiffly. “I don’t bumble around without a plan hoping for the best.”

Harry’s brows draw together and the muscles tighten between his shoulder blades. “Yea, well, my bumbling worked out OK for me in the end.”

Draco sniffs. “Barely. You did in fact _die.”_

“I _will_ be dead by the time you finish this!” Harry snaps, magic crackling at his fingertips. “A mountain troll could build this faster!”

Draco points his wand at a partially-formed drawer, loosening the hardware with savage flicks. “It’s not my fault you are a terrible assistant.”

“Screw you, I’m a brilliant assistant.”

“You say as I remove the wrong screw that _you_ handed me on a glide that isn’t supposed to be attached yet!” Draco clenches his fists. “You screwing _me_ is what got me into this mess in the first place!”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be screwing then!”

Harry stalks past a mutinous Draco. His magic flexes and every assembled drawer collapses. The bang of the bedroom door slamming behind him silences Draco’s yelled protest, echoing through the flat still as he grabs a handful of Floo powder, spilling the pot. 

He doesn’t bother to clean it up before he calls out his destination.

* * *

Harry stumbles out of the fireplace, coughing on ashes. His gaze immediately catches on a thick plait of black hair cascading down a bare back. Seated on the couch, Ron glances around his half-naked girlfriend straddling his lap. Harry squeezes his eyes shut.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, _so sorry_ _!”_ He exclaims, face flaming hot. “Shit.”

A melodious laugh blends with a rustling of fabric. “Hi, Harry,” Lottie says. Harry peeks one eye open. Lottie sits on the couch next to a bare-chested Ron, smoothing Ron’s t-shirt over her plump curves. “Your aura is whack.” Her brow wrinkles, and she tosses her plait over her shoulder. “Everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Harry says. His agitated magic skitters along his spine, and his smile collapses. “No,” he croaks. He wants to bolt out of his skin, like that time Dudley and his cronies chased him up that tree, and he fell out and skinned his knees, and he couldn’t cry even though it burned and burned, and all he wanted to do was run and run and—

“Whoa, whoa,” Ron says, alarmed. “What’s all this about trees and skinned knees? Are you hurt?”

Lottie stands and approaches Harry. She places a hand to his face. A thread of cool, calming magic ripples through his veins, singing with ancient tribal healing. “I’ll go make tea,” she says, a hint of sarcasm in her American accent, “since that’s what you Brits do in a crisis.”

Harry watches her exit into the kitchen. He grimaces at Ron. “Sorry, mate.”

“No worries.” Ron adjusts himself in his shorts and Summons an acid orange hoodie from the bedroom. He pulls it over his head and re-settles his hair with a ruffle of his hand. “What did ferret-boy do now?”

“Why do you always think it’s Draco?”

Ron leans his forearms on his knees and stares at Harry flatly.

“Fair point,” Harry concedes. He bites at a rough snag of skin at his thumbnail and paces the width of the fireplace. “So I was wanting to build this chest of drawers, you know, assemble all the pieces by hand.”

“As one does,” Ron agrees. His face pinches thoughtfully. “What happened to the one we found on the side of the road?”

“Draco was offended by it.”

“Oh, naturally.”

Harry resumes pacing. “And he was all, ‘I want to follow the instructions’, like the world will stop rotating on its axis if I attach the hardware out of order, and you know, I actually _liked_ that old chest of drawers you and I found, though Draco was right, that one drawer did stick, but it was imperfect and banged up, kind of like me, and not at all like the perfectly, polished gorgeous— ”

Lottie returns from the kitchen, a tea service for three bobbing behind her. She settles on the couch next to Ron. “What’d I miss?”

Ron accepts the cup tapping at his hand. “Malfoy’s got Harry’s knickers in a twist. Again.”

“I’ve always wondered,” Lottie adds three sugars to Ron’s tea, “what color knickers, do you think? Red seems too bold for our Golden Boy.”

“White, definitely, “ Ron says, “Harry is a vanilla kind of bloke.”

“And that’s another thing!” Harry interjects. “I _am_ vanilla! I even like vanilla ice cream! You can load it up with all manner of things, unlike his pretentious butter pecan.”

Ron and Lottie eye each other. Ron hides his grin behind his teacup.

Harry stops pacing. “What?”

“He doesn’t see it,” Ron says to Lottie.

She wrinkles her nose. “It’s cute.”

“See what?” Harry asks. He drops into a squishy armchair. “I think I’m seeing things quite clearly. He’s a prat— ”

“An insufferable, stuck-up prat,” Ron amends. Harry points at Ron in agreement.

Lottie shoots a stinging hex at Ron’s arm. “Be nice!” she admonishes. “I like him. He calls me Miss Charlotte. Makes me feel like a headmistress at a school for gifted children.” Her eyes twinkle. “I’ve an idea. Let’s do a little word association. Get to the crux.”

Harry and Ron exchange a doubtful look. 

“Trust me.” She folds her legs underneath her. “I’ll say a word, Harry, and you say the first thing that pops into your mind. Like if I say to Ron, 'strawberry', Ron says— ” 

“Birthmark!” Ron exclaims. 

Harry and Lottie look at him. The tips of his ears redden. “Lottie’s got this sweet little strawberry colored birthmark right on her— ”

“ _Anyway,”_ Harry interjects. “Got it.” He cracks his knuckles. “Let’s go.”

“Quidditch,” Lottie says.

“Holyhead Harpies,” Harry answers.

“Mate,” Ron scoffs.

Lottie shushes him. “Birthday,” she says to Harry.

“Blowjob,” Harry immediately answers.

Ron tilts back his head and laughs into his fist. “I bloody _knew_ it! Hermione owes me 10 galleons.”

“Cucumber,” Lottie continues.

Harry’s cheeks warm and his palms tingle. “Elbow.”

“Draco Malfoy.”

“Love.” 

Before the word is even out of his mouth, the truth of it ripples through Harry’s magic.

Lottie grins smugly and sips her tea.

Ron’s mouth hangs open. “Bloody hell,” he says. “That was _brilliant!_ I am so turned on right now. C’mere.” He dives his fingers into Lottie’s hair and kisses all over her face.

Harry slumps back in the soft cushions. He stares off, eyes unfocused, barely registering Lottie’s squeals of protest as Ron accosts her with kisses. An odd contentment settles over him. “I’m in love with Draco Malfoy,” he whispers.

Ron resurfaces from nibbling on Lottie’s earlobe. “And can I just say,” he adds, “it’s about bloody time.”

* * *

It turns out Harry in love is agreeable to all kinds of things.

He wholeheartedly accepts Ron and Lottie’s offer to help populate Draco’s boyfriend drawer — the perfect peace offering, according to Lottie, and, Ron adds with an eyebrow wiggle, a romantic gateway to a love confession.

Harry only slightly hesitates outside the XTC Adult Boutique, at which Ron has a frequent shoppers discount. His embarrassment remains solidly in check throughout all of Ron’s suggestions until he spots the white lace knickers modeled on the male mannequins, and he nearly combusts on the spot.

He covertly films Ron defending his suggestion to include Pansy’s new line of Hogwarts Inspired Silk Pants for the Discerning Alum on display at Neville’s Apothecary. A fast zoom-in on Lottie's expression in response to Ron’s claim that she especially appreciates the effect afforded by the strategic placement of the lion’s open mouth on the Gryffindor pair has him laughing himself hoarse.

Three hours later, Harry returns to his flat with both the Slytherin and Gryffindor silk pants; a bubble bath and lotion set from Longbottom Apothecary in Draco’s signature earl grey and cucumber scent; a large jar of vanilla flavoured lube, a gift from Ron and Lottie; a booklet of coupons entitling the owner to a number of indulgences, including a shampoo and scalp massage that sparked a little tingle at the base of Harry’s spine… 

And white lace knickers.

* * *

Harry finds Draco asleep on the bedroom floor. He’s surrounded by four completed drawers, random pieces of wood, and bits of hardware. The instructions look like they’ve been crumpled and smoothed out more than once, and a corner is charred as if at some point it was on fire. The stick figure drawing continues to pour wine but now it dumps the liquid repeatedly over a second stick figure wearing glasses and a lightning scar.

Harry leans against the door frame and just looks. 

Draco’s face, in repose, somehow maintains an air of condescension and aloofness. His smart mouth curls up as if he’s got a wicked secret only he knows and won’t share. He’s insufferable and exasperating, and Harry aches.

Harry enters the room and swishes his hand through the air back and forth, once, twice, three times. The remaining drawers assemble magically, and the cabinet forms.

Draco shifts in his sleep. “Magic _good,”_ he murmurs with a sigh.

Harry grins, warmth settling into his belly, the now-welcome buzz effervescing in his veins. He sends all the drawers but one into place in the cabinet. In the remaining drawer, he carefully arranges all the items he purchased. A big, green satin bow that Ron was adamant about is the final touch. Harry thinks it might be a tad excessive, but in for a sickle in for a galleon, and frankly it’s not nearly as incongruous as the love confession parked on the edge of his mind. 

He settles himself prone on the carpet next to Draco. Draco makes a soft sound and rolls his body against Harry’s, snuggling his face into Harry’s neck. Harry takes out his phone and snaps a photo of them together. He types the caption, _wish me luck,_ and hits send. Immediately, his phone pings. He chuckles at Ron’s emojis: lion, heart, snake, thumbs-up, heart, heart, eggplant, kiss.

“Furniture assembly is the tenth circle of hell,” Draco mumbles sleepily.

Harry sets aside the phone and buries his nose into Draco’s hair. “Ah, but you did brilliantly,” he says. “Look.”

Draco raises his head and squints over at the chest of drawers, lips parted. His hair is mussed, and he has carpet patterns imprinted on his face. Harry’s heart pulses out a massive throb, and he clamps his mouth shut to keep from blurting out the three single-syllable words poised on the tip of his tongue.

Draco’s squint shifts to a glare. “You assembled it magically, didn’t you.” He raises up and straddles Harry’s hips, pressing his arse into Harry’s groin.

Harry nods. He runs his hands up Draco’s thighs, squeezing the muscle, and grabs Draco’s hips to still his squirming. He needs every ounce of blood circulating to his brain and not rushing to regions south. Clarity in this moment is paramount. He’s already nervous enough without completely losing the already tenuous control over his cognizant faculties. 

“Draco,” he says, voice cracking a bit, “there’s something I want to confe— ”

“There’s a drawer missing,” Draco interrupts, glare still fixed on the chest. 

“Yeah, just, I’ve something to say first— ”

“Why is it missing?” Draco sweeps his gaze across the floor. “Is something amiss?” He freezes and stares, eyes wide. 

“Draco, wait!“

Draco grabs his wand and Summons Harry’s gift. Harry holds up his arm, fingers splayed. The drawer halts in mid-air, the bow vibrating with opposing magic, the contents rattling.

Harry grits his teeth against the strain. “Would you just wait for a bloody minute!”

“Is that… ?” Draco clutches at Harry’s arm, forcibly attempting to push it down. “Is that for me?”

“Yes,” Harry grunts, holding Draco’s wrists, “but, wait, just let me— ” Draco tussles with him, trying to wrench free. His arse grinds into Harry and fuck if Harry’s dick isn’t now perking up.

“Malfoy, I swear to— ” A sharp finger jabs his armpit, and Harry collapses in on himself with a grunt.

The drawer jumps into Draco’s hands. He smirks at the green bow. “You are forgiven,” he says magnanimously.

Harry opens his mouth to protest, only to be silenced by a finger pressed to his open lips. He relaxes into the rug, defeated, expelling a frustrated huff out of his nose.

Draco removes the ribbon and pokes through the drawer’s contents, wiggling excitedly. The lotion set receives a small smile. A lifted eyebrow meets the vanilla lube, and the silk pants get an exaggerated eye roll.

“Glimpse your brain that time, eh?” Harry asks.

Draco responds with a lift of his chin and flips through the coupon book, pausing to read. Harry tries to sneak a peek at which coupon has captured Draco’s interest, but Draco snaps the booklet shut.

Lastly, Draco hooks the knickers on a crooked finger and holds them aloft. He tilts his head. “For me,” he says, a sly grin sliding onto his lips, “or for you?”

Heat explodes up Harry’s neck, flaming his ears. He clears his throat. “Erm.”

Draco sets the drawer aside. He pensively fingers white lace, and a solemn look settles over his features.

Harry frowns, unease sinking in his gut. “You don’t like it. It’s, erm, whatever, I mean, I thought it was fun, like a joke, a ga— ”

Draco unbuttons his trousers.

“Guuuh,” Harry’s mouth drops open at white frills teasing out from under Draco’s button fly.

“Eloquent as ever,” Draco snorts, a smug curve to his lips. “My white flag of peace, if you will.” He rucks up his shirt, catching the hem in his teeth, and lowers his zipper. An intricate white lace pattern slowly emerges. He picks up Harry’s phone. 

Harry barely hears the ping of the record button over the roar of his blood as he trails his fingertips down Draco’s abdomen. He plunges his fingers under the elastic, catching hold of the waistband and dragging his thumb over the topography of Draco’s trapped cock.

Draco rolls his hips against Harry’s burgeoning erection, and Harry’s brain halts all processing. Words tumble out of his mouth, unfiltered, unheeded, unstoppable. “Fucking hell, I love you, God, I fucking _love_ you, you’re _gorgeous_ in white."

Draco’s body goes rigid, and the shirt drops from his lips. 

“Oh, fuck!” Harry’s heart clenches. He covers his hot face with his hands. “I-I didn’t mean, no, no, no, this wasn't the plan! I’m supposed to do it with the drawer and the… bow,” he finishes lamely. He peeks through his fingers.

Draco stares intently at the phone screen, eyes riveted and gleaming. “Say it again, Potter,” he demands quietly.

Harry inhales his heart back into place in his chest and grabs Draco's hips, anchoring his trembling hands. “I’m in love with you,” he says. “Did you get that, Malfoy? Are you still filming? I. Love. You.” His heart expands, unencumbered, released by his confession. 

Draco fumbles the phone and pokes at the screen with clumsy fingers several times before tossing it aside. A violent blush bleeds up his neck and into his scalp. Even his hair is blushing. “Brilliant,” he rasps, "because I didn’t toil over this ridiculous piece of furniture for shits and giggles.”

“Technically, I built it.” Harry’s grin is so wide it hurts.

“I _toiled,_ Potter,” Draco pouts, “and I got a splinter in my finger for my trouble.”

Harry plants a quick peck to the tip of Draco’s finger before engulfing it with his mouth, sealing his lips around the knuckle. Draco’s pupils grow bigger as Harry drags his finger out through his lips, swirling his tongue around the tip and releasing with a pop. 

“Also,” Draco says, voice low and wavering, “I injured my elbow.” He lifts his arm and presents his bony joint, nostrils flaring slightly with each inhale.

Harry props himself up and plants an open mouth kiss over the peak. The delicate skin tastes salty and crisp. He presses his cheek into the inside of Draco’s arm. “I might have a thing for your elbows.”

“You’re barmy,” Draco says, overly fond. “But only the one drawer? Last I recall, I earned four.”

"Four?" Harry hums and slides his tongue into Draco’s elbow crease, fingers slipping under Draco's trousers to fondle lace. “These knickers earned you five, at least.”

Draco’s breath hitches, the fine blonde hairs on his arm raising. “Five seems excessive.”

“There’s a cedar lined drawer for your wools,” Harry states, “and your silk pants need room to breathe, so they have their own drawer, and— ”

A whimper is all the warning Harry gets before Draco launches himself into him, knocking him back on the floor with a thud. Their kiss is weightless with joy and heavy with meaning. Draco clings to Harry, and Harry hugs him close lest they both float away.

Harry can’t help the giddy smile against Draco’s lips, breaking their kiss.

“I’ve got some ideas,” he says, grinning bigger at Draco’s raised eyebrow. “About the bedside tables…”

**Author's Note:**

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